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stopdoopy Jul 2018
(In a vacant church Little Girl and Big Man sit on a parish
a few feet apart, in between them lies a book titled"My Feelings".)

(The curtain opens. Little Girl sits staring at Big Man. Big Man gets up and goes to the statue of himself in front of them for a closer look.)

Big Man: Will talking in person really make a difference?

Little Girl: I like to think it does.

Big Man:  (turns to look at her incredulously.) What wishful thinking, you're so naïve.

(Little Girl opens her book and starts to read aloud.)

(Big Man cuts her off with a noise every time she starts to say something until she falls silent.)

Big Man: Just as I thought, it doesn't change anything.

Little Girl: But you don't-

Big Man: (cuts her off again.) You just can't let things go, that's your problem. I told you I didn't want to do this, yet you dragged me out here. It didn't accomplish anything!

Little Girl: That's because you don't even want to listen or try to talk, you just want to yell and blame me!

Big Man: That's enough, this conversation is over. (Walks off stage right.)

(Little Girl screams in anger and throws "My Feelings" at the Big Man Statue.)

(The Curtain closes.)
I wanted to try something a little different! I've never written stage directions or a play before but I thought this would be a nice change. I didn't really convey the raw anger or passion, nor was it the scene what I originally wanted but maybe it's a step in the right direction. Trying out different styles is neat. Not happy with this piece though but... oh well.
The pigeons are sad

The pigeons saw that

The future comes with bad

The pigeons were telling that

The prophets born here

The prophet know that

It is the land of kind

, welfare and tied

The religions at that land

The assembly of religions

The peace between nations

Were established there

Here was the prophet David

Who the mounts the trees ,

The stones and  the birds,

Repeated his prays

He governed with justice

After him ,Solomon was gotten

He governed with justice

The welfare had increased

And the peace with there

The Romans occupied it

And the injustice appeared

The killing and the theft

Were actually increased

Here was born Jesus

Who invited to peace

At shortest and clear

That was not admired

By Romans or Jewish

Who were there

They planned to **** him

The land became unfair

The decreasing of welfare

The increasing of fear

Till the new nation appeared

The new religion increased

It called for justice

It led to peace

The Muslims achieved a victory

As they built a great glory

And they blockaded the land

The patriarch man said,"

We didn’t give the keys

Except to your leader

Who is justice’s famous"

They wore one of soldiers

The smartest cloth

They introduced him

As the prince of Insurers

as the caliph of Muslims

The greatest patriarchs said,"

That is not the man we did

Actually knew and have red

At our book that mentioned

Him actually as we saw awake."

The leader of soldiers ordered

To sent a letter to the caliph

At bright city wide distance

As he wanted to keep blood

Out of bleeding

He wanted not to ****

The innocent people

He didn’t want to bore

His name over death

His religion ordered them

To save the innocent people

To the caliph to came

The caliph and a servant  moved

The leader of the greatest land

At that time, at that moment

From the kind and light city

He read the yassin of holy

Quran that equals twenty

Minutes

For riding the donkey

And his servants walks only

Then the caliph got off only

And the servant rode the donkey

And they read the yassin for away

To count and know time

And mention the God only

Then the caliph and servant  also

Walked with their donkey

To rest it also

They keep reading yassin only

Till they reached near the holy

City that mentioned with  holy

In Quran with great respect

The turn is on the servant  

To get  that donkey rode

And the caliph would walk

He said," my prince! I must

Get down and you must

Ride that donkey"

He said," then I will be called

Injustice caliph led the insurers

To be injustice at every talkers

And it is your turn

If the air came to me smelt

With good smell than yours

If the water I drink

Have more delicious than yours

If I created from mud

Made of silver and gold

I will rode that animal

And you must go walker

Ride it my good insurer"

The soldiers saw him

They did great clutter

They wanted to salute him

The patriarch said with amazed,"

See what is that noise?

He looked and said

That is him , that is him!"

The patriarch went and looked

He counted patch in his

The cloth of the greatest prince

Of the greatest Nation motioned

At the ancient, at the present

He said," you are who is mentined!

You are the caliph

"Omar" was the caliph

He gave them the safe deal

That mentioned by his name

The patriarch gave him the keys

Of  Jerusalem to him

The time for afternoon pray came

The caliph prayed out the church

The patriarch said

Why you didn’t pray at that

Place at the inner of the church

Omar said if I prayed here

The Muslims after that

Say "Omar" prayed here

And they took it

To be a mosque indeed
there is walkaways a chance to achieve a peace. if we catch it
Kabelo Maverick May 2014
Last I read, the Alpha said Jesus gave us Wine, Bread and Fish. The Way, Light and Truth was spread for nothing in return, a moving Church made wide, stead for each. Today I see business in Church all made part of some tradition, no valid permission...just a twisted perception of the less in the lurch and the rich in the mission. All due respect, I've seen Priests get lured by church female adolescence, truth. Priests are mentors especially to juvenescence, no wonder now church feels like a fashion parade courtesy of young essence, youth. Our Kids are now spiritually weak, they think going to church cleanses the sins for the following week. Adults say they've tried, but I see God holding a cane...whoever rebuked my Aunt's burial, pray you're not first in the lane. Where do we run to when Holy places are not such an Oasis? When white man doesn't travel to the moon with you? I don't know your faces...just mine, Black Jesus and Yahweh as basis...
"The Lord knoweth them that are his" (2 Tim. 2:19)
©hurch
Hannah Hernandez Dec 2013
They say church is a place for the broken hearted.
That going there will make you feel accepted.
That everyone will welcome you, without judgement, and you will never be alone.
So how is it that when I go to this place I feel judged beyond belief?
I am incapable of being myself, around people who claim they will accept me despite my flaws.
And although the room is full of people, I have never in my existence felt so alone.
Sara Kellie Oct 2018
Religion is Recruiting for
Customer Complaints.
Where is my God, the disciples
and all the absent saints?
The time I have invested
sitting in your church.
This wasn't in your advert
you've left me in the lurch.
I'm asking for a refund,
you've years to reimburse
and then there is the funeral,
the flowers and the hearse.

I've sat on your pew,
spent time praying to you
and now that I'm dead,
I'm unsure what to do.
I should have known better,
you never replied.
Yet I kept the faith
until the day that I died.

Now I queue to complain,
I must be ******' insane!
because,
well,
you don't even exist!

Poetry by Kaydee.
On the first day, man created God.
Kurt Carman Jun 2016
Memaw & Pepaw ..Mason Dixon Saturday night,
Just sippin' muscadine wine by the Tennessee moonlight
Rockin' chairs...Zenith Black and White
Roy, Buck, Minnie Pearl a Hee Haw delight.

Crickets a chirpin' and a Frogs a croakin'
Toe tapin' rhythm's got em all in motion.
Corn fields swaying like a metronome
Watching those two dance to cotton eye Joe!

Sunday mornings best at the Church of Christ,
Me, I'm Thinkin' bout Memaws country gravy, my fav-o-rite!
Fried Chicken, taters, eggs sunny side right,
These are the memories I like to recite.
I sure do miss you both. Hoeing okra and and mustered greens on Sunday afternoon. That **** rooster Ichabod having his way with those Rhode Island Red hens as Cecil and I laughed our ***** off. Making a sign for your hen house that read "Martins Chicken Hilton" and the day you died doing what you loved. I know your out there Cecil and Drewetta. I'll see you someday soon!
kaden Apr 2015
//

i'll act as if you're an altar

but even the faithful can falter

please **** me, because even when i'm dead i'll still love you

maybe God will even be there for you too

when we went to church we had secrets to keep

and as we knelled on the ground all i'd do was weep

just shoot me in the head not him instead

because i'm really the only one in this church that would be

*better
off
dead.
since being *** was so bad then, i reflected off of it and wrote this... i made myself cry


-----------------------------------------------------

if you have any questions or negativity about this poem, please message me. I do not want drama on HP.
Antino Art Apr 2018
We wear this city on our feet
Planting our roots with each step
Our shadows

cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over Nash Square at daybreak
We grow here

with the spirit of buildings past,
present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance,
the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense,
spires for steeples,
the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles
of our feet pounding the pavement,
Our congregation

seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop
Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage
They march

downtown toward Capitol
holding signs for disarmament
They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance
They sprint toward their cars on work week mornings in a blur of faces that become us,
Rush at all hours through our veins
Cross our hearts and keep us breathing
On the shoulders of this giant collective, we hold our heads high

to see that this is home now.
We cross into the unfamiliar
at the walk signal's cue,
breaking new ground, gazes meeting one another
as their counter-culture
coffee kicks in
to add this defiant bounce to each step
this rhythm to hop over puddles as they appear

We don't mind the way rain lands here
and its baptismal effect
We like how its capable of reinventing itself mid-fall into weightless snowflakes, then taking flight
We walk without umbrellas to see it

wearing the greyest pieces of their winter sky the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads
We assume monk-like appearances
in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat
We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet, mumbling last-mimute prayers for our salvation under our breath
We'll wear their dreams

at night, the moment the streetlights flicker on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible
on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour
We'll keep walking

past the lights of apartment windows as they dim behind us
the doors storefronts closed for the day
the paid parking meters as they clock out and become free
We'll wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders and we'll walk while they sleep

under the watch of their heavens,
the skyline
a glowing testament
of every step taken
toward someplace higher.
Lizzy Jan 2015
When I found my sacred place, I was content in the fact I would be undisturbed. The open grounds of the church sprawled out in front me and I ran. Green lush trees of the Abbey surrounded me and I was lost in my mind. Not in the way where I was terrified of the thoughts, but in the way that I couldn’t help staring at the pictures in my head this landscape prompted. It was quiet, except for the frequent screams of murders of crows. I was quiet and content, then I found out it would all be gone.
Paul Marfil Aug 2018
The moment my hands come
                                      to meet in prayer

     know that I am holding
        two broken fists             held together 

                    by lola's rosary beads            
       so tight against my skin        
                                             
you will mistake them
                          for blood clots.

                                 It is difficult to pray
  inside an unfinished church:

       A welder goes about
                              joining iron

                                 the way one gathers
his ironies before prayer.

  The sound he makes becomes too
           shredded it could be the sound of

metal screaming for mercy. At the back
             a woman stretches her hand

like a five o' clock shadow. Something
           holy stands frozen in time. Say pray

for us. She lights a candle.
                      When the fire went out, she is

pressed back into the dark. The last time
                         I was asked to write

            something for the Lord, I ended up
worshipping my own silence.

                           There is a sin a knee
          could no longer carry. I am sorry.

     Forgiveness is a room
                         with a door left ajar.

                                                    You are
         inside that room.

                   I know my chances will expand
          like an earthy bough, I know

one of them will break
                at the welcome of confession.

           You are...     

Perhaps **** is for those
               who used the wrong adjectives.

                A churchman opens a window,
   pours out a summer's worth of light—

    see it fall between the pews like sand
                 between one's fingers. Here

            where there is no light, anything
that shines will feel like a judgement.

Tell me how can one hold a prayer
          the way an empty hand can hold

     so much waiting. Tell me how can one
not weep in the shadow of a gospel

and see the light where it is aimed at.
              Somewhere down here

                    there is a worn down piano
            that never doubts

         the hand that plays it.
                                  It could be me.

     Perhaps at the worst end
                            of having a choice

          is the consequence of guilt. Perhaps
this is how things should have ended: us

        raising an amen
                                      
                     ­                         to our lips.
Via Olson Dec 2017
Sundown was a small town that straddled a small river, which had no name, because there was no need- it was the only river, therefore simply The River. The shores were beautiful- sparkling sand, cans, and the sheen of oil on rocks.
But a little trickle of water escaped through a grove of mismatched green and brown trees and formed a quiet, grey-blue pool, which, like all things, had been claimed. This small pool had the unlikely fortune of being ruled primarily and almost exclusively by frogs.
The Sundown Frogs' dominion over the little pond was broken only on the few days when the black-booted man came to visit.
A rock, neither small nor overly large, sat on the side of the Frog Pond, and the man would sit with the rock and quietly ask for its secrets.
Sometimes the rock would cry, dripping oil and water, and sometimes the rock would remain as stoic as the man himself. 
If the man, a minister, decided sit long enough for the trees to quiet, very slowly, the Sundown Frogs would return, their soft croaks following like shadows.
One day, as the minister had been sitting close by for hours, a frog jumped quite near him. It landed on a lily pad coated with the rock's tears, and the ripples it made reached the minister's unforgiving black boots.
The frog looked at the man, and the man looked back.
This contest of pride was ended only by the soft buzzing of a fly, lazily making its way over the little pond. The minister now straightened his spine, for this was his favorite part.
It was fascinating to him, the frog and it's  life. How her tongue released, curled, and then retracted. Just like that! a death of a fly.
The minister had watched such a show so many times he could imagine the action in his head, step by step, like pictures in a old film reel.
Out like lighting, the curl, the buzzing stops, in quicker than out, and then the silence of death.
And so the minister said to the frog, sitting on her lily pad, "The coming days will be brighter, for the sun must always rise again in the morning."
The frog said nothing, because frogs never do.
In the silence, the frog jumped away, and in the empty silence that followed her hollow splash, the minister promised to return again tomorrow.
I tried to explain how my mental health feels day to day. Not every day is laying in my bed, sobbing or empty. A lot of the time it's acknowledging the world is a beautiful place, objectively, but being unable to understand happiness in actuality. And there's irony in that that's hard to explain. There doesn't seem to be a reason to go on, and yet I get up every day.
Deb Jones Jan 4
When I was a child

Some of the most judgmental and unkind People I ever met were on church pews
Every Sunday with a Hymnal
And a Bible in their hands

I didn’t know how some people
Were able to disassociate their own Shortcomings and cruelty
From their religious
Obligations and convictions
But many were able to do just that

But as a child I couldn’t reconcile
The child abusers
The pedophiles
The rapists
The drug traffickers
The thieves
The alcoholics
The cheaters
The liars

From the people that stood at the pulpits.
The ones I was told to emulate.
The minister
The reverends
The deacons

The word minister embodies
Loving protection

The word reverend invokes
Reverence and inspiration

Doesn’t it?

I was a young adult
Before I realized
Church is for sinners
By that time organized religion
For me?
Was black and soiled.
Repulsive

Here I am now.
I fling mantras out into the world
Of love, hope, compassion,
Good health

I recently walked into
A cathedral in Ireland and cried.
I felt the weight of time and
Countless generations of believers.

Working in the medical field
And specializing in pediatrics
Holding a one pound baby
In my hands
Months before even
The parents were allowed to touch them
I sincerely believe in miracles
I see them almost every day

My church is in my head
Buddhism is in my heart
And in the actions of my hands
The words in my mouth
What my ears hear
The soothing of my soul

The meals I help serve the homeless
The blankets I spread on their cots

I bow my head and listen to prayers
Wherever they are offered
I quietly whisper
My wishes
Into an unknown ear  

I don’t judge many people anymore
My childhood is past
I learned valuable lessons
And peace is mine at last

That doesn’t mean I trust
Easily or broadly
It just means I am an adult
And am responsible

There is some good
In almost everyone
I don’t say that out of naivety
I have danced with monsters

But that’s another tale...
Naptural Mermaid Jul 2018
Would I be wrong to call this a blessing?
As his fine self continues professing
“Hear me dear Lord, I plea
This is my testimony”
Distracted by sinful thoughts
Praying I don’t get caught
I felt his gaze as he licks his lips
Yearning, for I know he wants to take a sip
“Let us pray”, the pastor cries
As I fall to my knees
Lord, please wash away the vulgarity
Sweating because we were in this very position last night
“Let the church say ‘Amen’” , the pastor cries
As I stand tall in sin
He hugs me
As my heart races from within
******, I think I’ll just blame this on Christian Mingle
s Willow Jan 8
Wispy moonlight beams,
enter the barren church
a place of dreams.
Outside next to a silver birch.
Inside women in search for someone,
someone long gone.
I kneel upon the alter.
The pain fills the void with slaughter.
A *****, frozen to his peace.
Nothing left to hang on.
It’s the end run.
Robbed forms,
lifted the storms.
However, my ***** flesh spared not.
Peter J Jan 14
Sometimes
when a storm is inside me
and no matter how blue a sky,
a stranger interrupts my prayers
with a mind to ****** a full ringed sun.

“He cover’s my eyes with unraveled hands
and around my neck places a cold unpricked rope”

And I tell him that;
I loved her face
her gentle hands
her unblemished lips,
and he replies
then bend upon this holy bed
for this is now your journey.
Veiled and shrouded
I turn towards the window
one last time.

From behind these hands
that cut my ball shaped voice
upon a deep cold stone windowsill
among a nest of leaves,
petals, Ivy, a hand crafted picture
of life’s eternal tree striped bare.
I see a vase of flowers.
As I look at all this beauty
the sun bursts in
and steals it away.
#this is just a little note inspired by a vase of flowers in a window at St. Aeddan's Church, Bettws Newydd.
#There is a picture on Instagram search for nolitleboy
#alllove
Daisy Marrow Sep 2013
The first time I saw you it was in math class.
I didn't notice anything about you at first I just memorized the back of how your head was.
After all, I had an hour to ****.
The second time I saw you were in English class.
You sat next to me but not by choice.
But I was happy about it.
It took me about four to five weeks to talk to you,
and I wasn't even the one to speak first.
You introduced yourself and then we worked together on an assignment.
It's been two weeks and I haven't said another word and I probably won't out of random.
My anxiety swallows me whole
and I'm sorry I can't even say hello.
But I have had time to notice you.
And let me just say
I'm in love with your taste in music
I'm in love with the way you hold your books
thinking that if you change the sound of your voice when the diagonal changes,
or if you struggle reading words you've never seen before and sit there for a few seconds trying to piece together what they mean.
I love how you can play the mandolin, you should show me sometime.
As I think about these things I also pick up how you would never even think of me.
I mean really,
you probably want some girl that's outgoing and can strum a guitar solo at midnight with you.
You probably want someone with long hair you can intertwine your fingers in,
or someone you can spend an afternoon together after church with.
I can't move mountains
and I can't even speak without looking like a fool,
but even if nothing will ever happen
It would be just as quite exciting being friends with you.
We could trade books and make each other mixtapes.
It hasn't even been a month yet and I'm already writing mediocre poetry about you.
I'm sorry about that by the way.
I'm not asking for a relationship but a friendship with someone like you would feel just the same.
I wrote this in like 20 minutes and I apologize I don't even know
2013
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